


Confessions of the Fevered Kind

by donutsweeper



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fever, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-24
Updated: 2012-04-24
Packaged: 2017-11-04 06:14:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/390684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/donutsweeper/pseuds/donutsweeper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When John becomes ill during a case Sherlock's reaction is not remotely what he expects.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Confessions of the Fevered Kind

John is getting sick. He knows it from the way his muscles ache and how he has a mild headache. There's a bit of a fever too maybe, but John ignores it all, tossing back a few pain relievers on his way out the door, following in Sherlock's wake.

Sherlock notices, of course, and raises an eyebrow, assessing John's condition in that maddeningly over critical way of his. "Paracetamol, John?"

"Headache," John replies. "Just a bit too much caffeine." Which is true. He's basically been living on coffee and tea for days now, managing snatches of sleep here and there, but they're on the hunt for a sick fuck who prays on pensioners in some of the worst ways possible and he's not willing to stop and get a good night's sleep when he's certain more people will have their lives ruined if they don't stop him soon. And he knows Sherlock's close, so close, to figuring it out, which means all John has to do is hang on and been the man's sounding board for a little longer and Sherlock will figure it out and then he can rest for a bit and, until then, he'll just try to drink plenty of fluids and eat a bit to keep his strength up and stay warm and everything should be just fine. 

Of course his plans of fighting off whatever bug he's managed to pick up are dashed due to a sudden rainstorm and Sherlock's insistence that they stakeout a specific bench at a park, which results in four hours of staring at it while nothing happened and no one came anywhere near it. Sherlock is, for some reason John can't fathom, _thrilled_ with the result, and once they're done observing the bench sit there and be a park bench he declares they need to examine the contents of all the rubbish bins within the park.

John's freezing by the time they're done, but carefully holds onto everything Sherlock shoves at him: ticket stubs, several newspapers with half completed crossword puzzles and a bag of something that smells suspiciously like dog poo.

"Excellent." Sherlock is practically vibrating with excitement. "Lestrade should be texting in a minute with details of the latest attack." He grabs John's arms, squeezing tightly for a moment before clapping his hands together excitedly. "We have him, John! We have him!" But then he stops and leans in, one hand lifting John's chin up to look John straight in the eye.

"You're ill."

"It's nothing," John says, pulling away. "I'll be fine. The paracetamol I took earlier should take care of it." When Sherlock doesn't look like he believes him he adds, "Doctor, remember? I'll be fine. Let's catch this bastard."

Sherlock pauses a moment, but if he was going to protest it's forgotten about the minute his mobile dings and he barely looks at the message before running off, dragging John behind him like a small child might his security blanket.

They don't get a cab once they reach the road, instead Sherlock just keeps running, ducking down alley after alley, following some sort of path that only makes sense if you've got a detailed map of London in your head like Sherlock does. John hasn't a clue where they are or what their destination is, but when it comes to following Sherlock that's never mattered before and doesn't matter now. Sherlock's certain of where they're headed and John trusts in that.

Sherlock stops briefly to confer with a member of his homeless network, an elderly man suffering from appallingly bad hygiene and, by the smell of it, a terrible case of trench foot and John uses the pause as an opportunity to wipe his sleeve across his forehead. He's sopping wet and he knows it's only partially due to the rain. Despite what he told Sherlock the paracetamol wore off ages ago and the aches and fever are back in force and his head is pounding. But none of that matters, because with whatever new information Sherlock's just been told you'd think it was Christmas and New Year's and his birthday all rolled into one the way he's beaming and his eyes are shining and how could John think of going home when Sherlock's looking like _that_?

Sherlock passes the man some notes, which John hopes he'll use for some new boots and a few clean pairs of socks, even though he knows it's ridiculously unlikely that'll be the case, and then turns to John. "It's brilliant! Brilliant! I can't believe I didn't see it earlier! Come," Sherlock says, gesturing John to get a move on, "I'm sure Anderson has had enough time to make an utter cock up of Lestrade's crime scene by now. Let's see how many things he got wrong this time!"

And then he's off and John's following behind, because, even though he's nothing to add to the case, for some strange reason Sherlock wants him there and that's a good enough reason to be there for him.

Thankfully, Sherlock hails a cab as soon as he spots one and the minute John slips in and sits he decides it's the most comfortable cab in all creation which is, frankly, a little disturbing, considering the odd kimchi and curry smell it has and the suspicious stains in the seat's upholstery. John's eyes flutter closed on their own volition; he blinks furiously to keep them open and gives Sherlock a quick sideways glance to see if he's noticed, but Sherlock has his fingers steepled under his chin and is lost in his own world of swirling thoughts and deductions so John decides it's safe to snatch a quick nap. As the warmth from the heater starts to thaw out his bones he thinks this is just what he needs: a little rest, a chance to warm up and dry out and he'll be fine for however long it will take for Sherlock to solve the case.

He hadn't planned on sleeping so deeply though. Or that instead of his coat drying, it has morphed into some kind of wet slug creature that clings to him and makes him clammy and cold and impedes his movements so that when he blinks awake at Sherlock's slamming of the door and half muffled shout of, "Come on, John," it takes a ridiculous amount of effort to open his own door and slide out.

Despite being under siege by the coat-slug he manages to get out and the cab drives off without the cabbie bothering him for the fare which means Sherlock actually paid for once, something that is probably significant in some way, but John is too tired to figure out how. Looking around, he spots Sherlock about to be swallowed by the crowd of police and onlookers and follows hurriedly in his wake. Luckily, considering Sherlock's height, it isn't easy to lose sight of him, but it still takes John a pathetically long time to catch up.

Sherlock's deep in conversation with Lestrade's people by then and doesn't seem to notice John's arrival, he's too busy berating the police for their ineptitude and general incompetence, which was pretty much Sherlock's typical way of dealing with them so no longer garners more than a sigh or two by anyone involved. John just finds a convenient wall to lean against and smiles to himself as he watches Sherlock be brilliant.

The wall's nice, John decides as he leans against it while watching Sherlock working his frustration out on the hapless police officer who has the audacity to explain that the crime scene is off limits to everyone, Sherlock included, until the victim's fourteen cats could be rounded up. It's not terribly welcome news to Sherlock and it doesn't take an expert in all things Sherlock to realize an explosion of epic proportions is imminent if that isn't rectified soon: Sherlock's hand movements are getting bigger and more and more exaggerated and his tone shriller and more exasperated. 

"No, you don't understand, Detective Inspector Lestrade _texted_ me," Sherlock explains again when the poor man foolishly pauses to breathe, and holds his mobile out as a visual aide as if that will somehow speed the cats' collection along. "Inspector Lestrade. Oh dear god, why am I even bothering to talk to you. It's obvious that you still live at with your parents, with neither the income nor intellect to desire to move, and that you spend all your spare time in your bedroom-"

"Sherlock," John warns. They've had discussions about appropriate behaviour at crime scenes and when dealing with the public and while Sherlock rarely sees the point to being less abrasive (John gave up on the idea of Sherlock ever actually being polite when frustrated quite some time ago), after much badgering, he has come to understand that acquiescing, upon occasion, to John's opinion on conversational etiquette can prove useful. As shown by the fact that these days he tends to be permitted to stay at the crime scene rather than being forcibly removed from the area as he used to be with annoying regularity.

Sherlock huffs, but does stop before he reveals whatever ridiculous factoid he has managed to deduce about the young policeman, which is probably for the best, considering where that sentence had left off and where it might have been going. John grins at the look Sherlock shoots him and leans back to enjoy his comfortable wall while they wait for either Lestrade to appear or for them to get permission to go inside.

Things are quiet for a moment, well as quiet as it ever gets at a crime scene in London, until suddenly Sherlock is standing directly in front of John and says, "You have more than a headache," rather loudly, which startles John since he hadn't even heard him approach.

"I won't slow you down," John says by way of a reply, "You don't have to worry about that." 

Sherlock frowns. "I didn't say you would." There's an odd timber to Sherlock's voice, one John can't quite place, but before he can ask about it a group of people emerge from the crime scene, each carrying several boxes labelled _'RSPCA'_ on one side and _'live animal'_ on the other, and even John is capable of deducing that they were the ones sent in to collect the cats and that their mission must have been successful. Sherlock ignores them, in favour of staring at John with an intensity that is, frankly, beginning to become uncomfortable. "You shouldn't be here."

John sighs. He knew this was coming, in fact he thinks he's always known. Sherlock has finally realized that John simply can't keep up, mentally or physically. He's tried, tried so hard, but his mind will never be as sharp as Sherlock's and his body is failing him and while he's always assumed this would happen, he'd hoped it wouldn't be for a long, long time. "Yeah, right. Of course," John manages to choke out before pushing himself away from the wall, away from the crime scene, away from _Sherlock,_ but his leg gives out and the only reason he doesn't collapse in a heap on the pavement is that Sherlock has lighting fast reflexes and grabs him almost instantly.

"John, you're burning up," Sherlock announces, like that's something John is unaware of. 

John steadies himself and tries to pull out of Sherlock's grasp. "I'll be all right. Look, there's Lestrade." He points to where Lestrade, having finished conferring with the RSPCA crowd, is starting to head in their direction. "He looks happy, or not upset anyway, so it's likely all the cats have been collected. He's probably coming over here to let you know you can examine the crime scene."

"I don't care about the damn crime scene!" Sherlock shouts loudly enough that nearly everyone around them stops what they're doing to turn and stare at them.

"What's this now?" Lestrade asks, sounding partly incredulous and partly amused. "The great Sherlock Holmes is turning down the opportunity to examine a crime scene?"

"John is ill," Sherlock explains, "He needs to go home."

The look of utter confusion on Lestrade's face must have been mirrored on John's own because Sherlock turns to him and clarifies, "I need to take you home."

"But..." John begins to protest, because Sherlock wasn't making any sense whatsoever, "There's the case. And the crime scene. You were so excited."

Sherlock gently pushes John back until he's leaning against his comfortable wall again and takes his chin in his hand and looks straight into his eyes. "Did you really think I'd continue on with the case, and just throw you into a cab and send you on your way when you are this sick?"

 _Well, yes,_ John thinks, and even though he doesn't say anything out loud something must have shown on his face because Sherlock's lips tighten and if John didn't know any better he'd assume Sherlock is hurt by his unvoiced thought. He settles for shrugging silently and not looking Sherlock in the eyes.

Sighing dramatically, Sherlock reaches into John's coat pockets with his free hand and begins pulling out the items they'd collected at the park, handing them to Lestrade one by one. John lets himself drift, Sherlock's litany of explanation and deduction flowing over him without even trying to follow his train of thought because he has enough trouble jumping from one of Sherlock's logic ice floes to another on days when he's firing on all cylinders and today he is functioning at far less than that.

"It's the _slant_ ," Sherlock is saying, "Don't you see? It's all about the slant! Look! Compare this _t_ to this _l_. It's so obvious!"

Sherlock's grip on his shoulder is warm and the wall cold and John's floating in a sea of crosswords and cats and Lestrade's affectionate grumbling fades and then there's a blanket and an arm guiding him to who knows where but he knows he'll be safe because Sherlock is there and, for whatever reason, Sherlock won't let him go anywhere without him.

The next thing he knows he's in bed. Well, a bed. Not his bed. The ceiling's all wrong for that. But it's a nice bed and Sherlock is there, sitting on the edge and leaning against the headboard, and John spends a moment trying to decide if the bed is nice because of Sherlock's presence or if the bed's comfort value has nothing to do with the company at hand before deciding it really doesn't matter because Sherlock _is_ there and the bed _is_ soft and it's only when he's half on his way to falling asleep that he remembers about the case and moves to sit up.

"Sherlock," he calls out, or tries to anyway. His mouth is dry and thick and he winds up croaking out something that only vaguely resembles any word in the English language.

"Shhh, John," Sherlock says softly, so softly that if it weren't _Sherlock_ and if he didn't know better John would consider it crooning. And then Sherlock's hand is on John's forehead, pressing him back against the pillow. "You need to rest."

"M'fine," he protests.

"You most certainly are not." Sherlock frowns and his face take on the look it usually has when he's dealing with Anderson, his _I'm surrounded by morons_ look. John hates it when that particular look is directed at him.

"Fever?" he manages to ask eventually after clearing his throat enough to force the word out.

"Yes." Sherlock stands, busying himself at the bedside table dipping a flannel in a bowl of water before wringing it out and then laying it across John's forehead. "It's been quite high. There was a discussion about bringing you to the A&E."

No wonder Sherlock's annoyed; he's stuck playing nursemaid to a sick flatmate instead of involving himself in the intricacies of the case they'd been working on. "Sorry." He swallows heavily, fighting to do the right thing against his desires to have Sherlock _here_ , caring for him. "I'm better now. Enough to take care of myself for a while anyway. You should go."

Sherlock freezes, remaining motionless for a moment, just blinking at John before his eyebrows knit together in a way that usually signals eminent explosion. Which is why Sherlock's next words aren't entirely unexpected, even though they still cut him to the quick, "John, just how ridiculously stupid are you?" 

"I. But," John starts to say, but his voice is very thick. He has to blink furiously because everything's gone fuzzy and he can't quite seem to swallow away the lump in his throat. "I thought. I know I can't keep up, not with you, but I thought. I thought I was a help, at least a little bit of one. Sometimes. With the cases. Being your sounding board. Making tea. Sending texts. Extra set of eyes and legs, I thought it was helpful, even if it was just stupid old me."

"John." Sherlock bends down, squatting next to the side of the bed so he's at John's level. "We should not be having this conversation while you are ill."

"Okay. Right." John sniffs and turns away, shutting his eyes. He should have known better, he thinks wearily, Sherlock doesn't need his help or his input, he's been foolish not to see it earlier. At best Sherlock puts up with him for his ability to do some of the grunt work. At worst, he's a hindrance. Like now when he's been stupid enough to get sick and fails to medicate properly and now he's incapable of taking care of himself and Sherlock has to do it for him, despite there being a case, because there's no one else. No one but Sherlock. Not for him. Not anymore.

"Shh." And there's a finger on his lips, silencing him. But he hasn't been talking, has he? What has he said?

"Shhh," Sherlock repeats, wiping him down with the cool flannel, waging a war against the fever that burns John with each swipe. "Everything will be all right." He sounds so certain that John can't help but believe him. "I'm right here and I'm not going anywhere. I promise. Now, try to rest."

It seems like very reasonable advice and John finds he can't help but obey it and drifts off, Sherlock a comforting presence, keeping the fire and pain away.

It is evening when John wakes up next, although he's not sure _which_ evening. He recognises where he is almost immediately, Sherlock's room. There's no other odour in the world like the mix of chemicals, paste, coffee, wool and formaldehyde that is seeped into every molecule of this room. It smells like Sherlock and he finds it oddly comforting. 

He shifts about on the bed a bit, feeling the twinges and lingering aches of a serious illness. Someone's been taking care of him, even the sheets have been recently changed; the pillowcase is crisp and cool beneath his cheek. He likes to think that it was Sherlock and his memory, while hazy and incomplete, seems to agree. 

There is a soft snuffling noise to his left and when he turns his head he sees that Sherlock at some point in time has pulled one of the chairs from the sitting room up against the bed and is now curled up on it, deeply asleep, completely dead to the world. John has seen him like this before, usually after a long case when Sherlock's being his typical stubborn self and refuses to stop for food or rest and lives off the adrenaline he gets from the action and mystery. It's only when everything is said and done that he crashes, collapsing in bed or on the sofa like a marionette whose strings have been cut and not moving again for hours, if not days.

John realizes that Sherlock must have been with him since he got sick at the crime scene, however long ago that was, and now that John's fever has broken Sherlock has allowed himself to finally rest. Rest, but not relax. Even in sleep, there is a crease of worry across Sherlock's brow and his hand, even while hanging over the arm of the chair and resting on the edge of the bed, is clenched in a fist.

Reaching out, John brushes his thumb along Sherlock's knuckles. He makes sure to keep his touch light and gentle and Sherlock's hand slowly begins to relax under his ministrations. It's only when Sherlock intertwines his hand with John's that he realizes Sherlock's woken up.

"You're awake," Sherlock says, looking at John through half closed eyes.

"So are you," John replies.

Sherlock smiles at John's response, squeezing his hand. John can't help but smile back and hold on tight.

Sherlock is quiet, contemplative, sitting there, eyeing John. "We need to talk," he says eventually and John can't hide the hitch in his breath.

"Sherlock-" John starts to say, not even sure what he's going to say, but saying _something_ had to be better than _nothing_ and he's pretty sure that if he's going to be tossed away like yesterday's rubbish he couldn't, shouldn't, let it be without a fight.

"No," Sherlock almost immediately cuts John off. "You misunderstood. Or, rather, I misspoke. _I_ need to talk. You need to listen."

There's a moment before Sherlock begins when he just looks at John and John finds he can't help but look back even though every fibre of his body is screaming at him to run and never look back because it's easier to assume the worst than to be boldly told of its certainty, but he's still exhausted and Sherlock's acting odd and there is the teeniest of voices in the back of his head asking _but what if you're wrong?_ and he realizes he has to know so he clenches his teeth and prepares for the worst.

"I now realize you have been labouring under several misconceptions. As you know, I have often considered myself a high functioning sociopath, and, as such, there are numerous occasions where I fail to express myself according to the typical social conventions and niceties." Sherlock's gaze falls to their hands and it seems to take a conscious effort of his part to loosen his grip slightly. "You were ill, very ill, yet, at the crime scene you acted as if you expected me to be more interested in the case than your welfare. Your misconception is understandable; I am neither demonstrative nor prone to platitudes. Emotions are... not my forte."

John snickers softly at Sherlock's admission, but tries to hide his amusement by clearing his throat. Not surprisingly, it does not fool Sherlock, who raise an eyebrow, but does not comment at John's digression. 

"When you were in the throes of fever you verbalized some opinions of yourself, and of me, unencumbered by your traditional tendency of conforming to societal norms. It was rather enlightening."

"Oh, bloody hell," John groans once he's had a moment to translate Sherlock-speak into something he can understand. He scrubs his free hand over his face, bracing himself for whatever is to follow.

"You, John Watson," Sherlock says in that tone of his that brooks no argument, "Are not stupid. Nor are you a hindrance. In fact it would not be incorrect to say that you are invaluable to me."

"In-invaluable?" John parrots, incredulously, finding it almost impossible to believe. "During a case? You seriously think that?"

Sherlock nods. "Both during cases and in between them." 

John can't help but respond to that with a big goofy grin.

"Now rest," Sherlock orders. He pulls his hand from John's and stands, brushing his knuckles against John's cheek before turning to leave the room. "I'll be back in a few hours with tea and something for you to eat. You're recovering, but we need to get you well again." He paused in the doorway, half in the room, half out, just like that day in the lab and, with a look of mischievous delight added, "I'd be lost without my blogger."


End file.
